Something about it had drawn him in. Not hunger. Not habit. Something quieter. The vendor had smiled as if she’d been waiting. “For first snow,” she had said, pressing the golden-wrapped package into his palm.
Now, pulling it free, he thought: Of course.
Of course the boy would demand mooncakes. Of course fate would leave one burning in his pocket like a charm.
With careful precision, he placed the mooncake atop the scattered mess of papers in front of Haneul.
It took half a heartbeat.
Then— The boy’s eyes lit. Greedy. Open. Delighted in a way that cracked through all the posturing.
Without hesitating, the fox-masked boy snatched the pastry and tore off the foil, devouring the sweet treat with shameless gusto, crumbs scattering carelessly across the expensive, pristine surface of the desk. He moaned appreciatively, eyes fluttering closed in a moment of rare, simple pleasure that was breathtakingly genuine and deeply endearing.
“You’re not as stupid as you look,” Haneul admitted grudgingly between bites, eyes glittering with suspicion and reluctant approval. He finished the mooncake quickly, licking stray crumbs from his fingertips, utterly shameless and breathtakingly unconscious of how obscenely enticing the simple act was.
Seungho’s throat tightened painfully, watching the sweet crumbs cling stubbornly to the plump curve of the younger man's lips. Everything about him was an impossible contradiction—, innocent, lethal, naïve, beautiful, and utterly oblivious to the chaotic power he wielded so effortlessly.
??????
The rustle came like the shifting of serpents in a nest—soft, sly, the sound of expensive silk whispering against leather chairs, followed by a muffled grunt and an unmistakable giggle. Seungho’s crimson gaze flicked toward the disturbance a moment before Haneul moved, but he hadn’t expected what came next.
A soft thud of boots hitting the floor, kicked off under the desk like they were too heavy for fury, and the sudden pressure against his chest—a slender, bare foot, icy cold and firm—pressed him backward, forcing him with unrelenting, regal force back into his chair. Not rough. Commanding. His breath caught sharply, but he made no move to resist, only watching, mesmerized, as Haneul turned his head, gaze narrowing like a frost-tipped blade, jaw tightening.
"The party is over," the boy growled, voice low, furious, and chilling in a way that made even the air in the room freeze.
Then, with terrifying grace, Haneul moved.
He sprang up on the desk in a sweep of muscle and sparkling dust, boots left behind, silver fox mask flashing like a blade of moonlight. His bare feet made no sound as he walked across Seungho’s desk—yes, walked on it like it was a stage, his runway, his altar—documents, contracts, pens scattering in the wake of his fury. The hem of his cropped top fluttered, exposing ribs and taut abdomen, all pale, unmarked skin stretched tight over tension. He was barefoot, furious, gleaming—a myth come to rip the skin off false kings.
The semicircle of executives barely turned before he landed among them with a graceful thud that rattled wineglasses.
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Then chaos.
Junseo barely had time to react before Haneul’s hand tangled in his perfectly styled, orange-dyed hair and yanked him backward, the move both violent and strangely protective, shielding him from the executive's touch in a single motion. The boy yelped, stunned, and stumbled back, narrowly avoiding tumbling from the table.
The older executive—a heavy-set man with jowls that looked like they’d aged on cigar smoke and entitlement—stared in shock, mouth falling open. That expression didn’t last. Haneul’s hand whipped out in a beautiful arc, backhanding the man across the face with a sound so sharp it cracked through the air like lightning striking marble.
The entire room went silent.
Everyone was watching.
Then Haneul leaned forward, eyes alight with fury, cheeks flushed, star-glitter catching the light like war paint, one hand resting sassy and authoritative on his hip while the other stabbed a finger toward the man’s stunned, rapidly reddening face.
“The rules were fucking clear!” His voice shook, brittle with rage. “Keep your meat hooks to yourself!”
He took one barefoot step closer, lips curling back. “What’s wrong, huh? That fat grey matter between your ears finally gave out?”
No one stopped him. No one dared. He turned again—face flushed, eyes furious, star glitter streaked like warpaint.
“You crusty, obscene sack of rotten kimchi!”
Theman stammered something, cheeks flaming with humiliation, but Haneul had already spun on his bare heel with a fury that scattered glasses and egos in equal measure. He rounded on Junseo, who stood on the floor looking disheveled and mortified, his tie hanging off one shoulder like a noose half-slipped.
"And you!!!" Haneul roared, voice cracking dangerously, pointing an accusing finger so hard it looked like it could pierce glass. "Junseo—cannot fucking keep your cock in your pants for one hour??! One! Hour!?"
Junseo winced, mouthing a silent apology, eyes flicking nervously toward Seungho and the other onlookers.
